“Yes,” he replied, helping himself to a plate of food. Despite his lunch at the St. Botolph, he was hungry; he put it down to nervous tension.
She gave him his tea. “Well? What did he say? Was he— receptive?”
“To any mention of you, Caro, yes, indeed.” Ames smiled at her. “You have made a conquest, you know.”
She shook her head at him dismissively. “Don't say that. He is—well, you know what he is. Did he give you any information? Oh—Doctor—I am so sorry. Here is yours,” she added, handing him his cup.
Just one of those scones, he thought, mindful of his spreading girth. He took one and spooned on it a dollop of shimmering ruby-red currant jelly from a cut-crystal bowl.
“Not in particular,” Ames said. Briefly, he told her about their day—omitting the visit to Edwin Redpath—and as he finished, they heard the front door knocker.
“That will be Delahanty,” said Ames; they heard Margaret's delighted voice, and then laughter. Delahanty, indeed, MacKenzie thought.
He came in carrying a folded sheet of paper. “Miss Ames—Addington—Doctor—here it is.” He handed it to Ames, who unfolded it and began at once to study it.
Meanwhile Delahanty settled himself and accepted tea. He was ruddy-faced, as if he had walked briskly in the evening chill; he wore a long, knitted blue muffler which he had not bothered to remove when he came in.
Caroline made polite conversation with him for a moment, but she was longing to examine the Colonel's galley sheet for herself. After a few moments, Ames made an exasperated sound and handed it to her.
“Here, see what you can make of it. Fourth line from the end seems to be the reference to—what we were looking for,” he amended, remembering that Delahanty, good friend that he was, was nevertheless not privy to their young cousin's troubles.
It was, she saw, a venomous list of initials, hints, innuen-dos. And, yes, there was Val—“V.T.”—near the bottom. “The amorous correspondent,” Colonel Mann had dubbed her. And if the Putnams ever saw that—!
“Yes,” she said, “I think you are right, Addington. Oh, that terrible man!”
She looked up at them, her soft brown eyes startlingly alive with anger. “Dare I say that I am glad he is dead? I do say it. Look at the harm he does—”
“No more,” said Delahanty with a smile.
As if she had not heard him, she said, “And look at this, Addington! ‘Mrs. T.C. is known for her impetuous behavior—too much tripping the light fantastic.’ ” She glanced up at them. “Do you know what that means?”
“No,” said Ames.
“It refers to that silly woman, India Choate. She has been married these ten years, and still she flirts with every man in shoe leather. I cannot imagine why her husband does not curb her.”
“If her indiscretion is so well known, how could the Colonel hope to embarrass her?” Delahanty asked.
“This is a somewhat more serious matter, I believe,” Caroline replied. “I heard only the other day that her husband was threatening to divorce her—divorce her, can you imagine? Apparently she made an absolute spectacle of herself at the Homans' ball two weeks ago. And here, Addington! Look at this! ‘Mrs. B.K. has a very clever son—too clever, perhaps, even for the authorities at his college.’ Now, what can that mean?”
Ames thought of the letter that he had found in the Colonel's desk—a letter from a “G.K.” pleading with the Colonel for mercy. He shook his head. Who knew the heart of another? Every man—and woman—had a dark side, hidden for the most part, exposing itself from time to time to put its owner in danger.
Caroline had returned to the galley, shaking her head, uttering little tsks of outrage at each new item whose subject she could identify.
“Mr. B.P.,” she read, and then looked up. “The Paddocks left last week for South Carolina. I wonder if— And here, Addington! Look at this— ‘A noted—or should we say notorious—lady thespian should leave that racing fellow and his cronies.’” She looked up at them. “Do you know who that is?”
“Mrs. Vincent, I imagine,” Delahanty said.
“Of course. Who else could it be? Colonel Mann ruined her once, so why can he not let her alone now?”
Ames thought of Redpath's description of the woman in a sable cloak.
At MacKenzie's curious look, Delahanty explained: “Do you like the theater, Doctor? Yes. So do I. One of the ornaments of the stage here in Boston is a most beautiful lady— ah, well, Miss Ames, I don't suppose she is a lady anymore, is she? Howsoever. She is, or was, a member of a Boston family as fine as the Ameses, here. And then about five years ago, the Colonel discovered something scandalous about her—an adulterous affair—and printed it in his paper. Her husband divorced her, she was thrown out without a penny, and everyone expected her to starve in some dreary room in the South End. Instead”—and here he laughed—“she went on the stage and made a great success of it. She's the resident star at the Park Theater. Of course, that's not something a proper lady should be, but I suppose she thought that under the circumstances, no more harm could be done to her reputation than the Colonel had done already. She's very popular. Have you seen her new thing, Addington? Lady Musgrove's Secret, it's called. I saw it the other night. She's a fine figure of a woman, I'll say that for her.”
Caroline might have taken offense at this, but she did not. “Serena Vincent was always beautiful,” she said mildly. “Serena Sohier, she was, before she married. I remember when she came out, she was the ‘bud’ of the year. Everyone predicted a glorious marriage for her. And then she surprised us all by marrying Samuel Vincent—”
“And lived to regret it,” Delahanty interjected.
“Oh, yes. It was a mistake from the first. We all understood that; we wondered why she didn't. And now, of course, no one receives her, no one even admits to knowing her. Poor woman!”
She shuddered. She herself could never have withstood disgrace as bravely as Serena Vincent had done, but Mrs. Vincent had come out of it seemingly unscathed. What scars remained on her heart, her soul, were not for the world to see.
“She travels in fast circles now, from what I hear,” Delahanty said.
At last Caroline let the galley fall to her lap, and with a murmured word, Delahanty took it and began to read. She looked up at Ames. “Tonight at the Cotillion, Addington—”
“Yes.”
“That pearl.” She shook her head. “I know I've never seen it before. But tonight, perhaps—” She broke off with a bitter little laugh.
“I had intended to enjoy myself this evening,” she went on. “I always do at these affairs. The girls are so lovely in their dresses—thank goodness, post-debutantes don't have to wear white, the way the ‘buds’ do—but now, if I must look for that pearl…”
She turned to their visitor. “You have been most kind, Mr. Delahanty. We are very grateful to you.”
“Not at all, ma'am.” Tactfully, like the good friend that he was, he made no embarrassing inquiries—about the pearl or anything else.
She fell silent for a moment, thinking. MacKenzie was distressed to see a sharp little vertical line appear between her brows; he wished he could say something to erase it.
“Addington!” she said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“How do you suppose the Colonel got all his information?”
Ames thought of the bleak words the member at the St. Botolph had uttered: “Someone will always be on hand to sell you out.”
“He had his informants,” he said simply.
“But who? Who would be vile enough to go to him with private information, things no one should ever know—”
“Servants,” said Delahanty. “Impoverished relations. There are many people who—”
“No,” she said. She looked away, thinking about it. “Some of that material”—she waved her hand at the galleys, which Delahanty still held—“is not so very private, I grant you. But other things—like the Bradshaw case, Addington. How did the Colonel get his
hands on that? It is impossible to understand how he—” She wrestled with it for a moment. “Addington,” she said then, and her voice was choked a little. “Think what it means!”
“Yes, Caro. I have done so.”
“It means—” She looked around at the little circle of faces, three good and decent men, any one of whom she would have trusted with her life—or with her darkest secrets, had she had any.
“It means that no one is to be trusted, Addington! It means that we are betrayed on all sides—by our friends, by the servants who live with us, even by our families! I cannot believe it. I refuse to believe it!”
He contemplated her from beneath his dark brows; on his long, lean face was an expression very much like pity. “Apparently you must believe it, my dear.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she were in pain. Then she looked around at them again, and it seemed to Ames—to all of them—that iron had suddenly entered into her soul.
“Someone in Boston Society,” she said, “someone whom we see all the time, perhaps even someone who is well known to us—is a spy.”
CAROLINE KNEW FROM THE MOMENT SHE ENTERED THE ballroom that this evening would be a difficult one. Her corset, for one thing: she'd had to lace it tight—too tight— in order to fit into her only ball gown, a gray silk affair, trimmed in Valenciennes lace, that she hadn't worn since before her mother died. She was going to grow even more plump in her old age, she just knew it; she doubted she would have the strength of character to lace tightly enough, as the years passed, to fit into all her clothing. Styles would change, of course, but she would happily wear her old clothes as long as they lasted, if only she didn't have to lace more tightly to fit into them.
Even more troublesome than tight lacing, however, was the reception she was getting here tonight. Ordinarily, on these occasions, she was effusively greeted by dozens of friends and acquaintances and near and distant relations— people she'd grown up with, people she'd known all her life. With no sense of self-importance, she knew they liked her; for the most part, she liked them back.
Tonight, however, was going to be different. People greeted her, yes, but she saw the suspicion in their eyes, she sensed their lack of enthusiasm as they spoke to her.
She fixed a brilliant smile on her face and proceeded through the crowd. She was looking at the women's jewelry. So far, she'd not seen anyone wearing pearls that matched Addington's sketch.
The hall was warm and noisy; MacKenzie, under his gray wool sack suit, was perspiring as he followed her. Surreptitiously, he removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow. As happy as he was to have this time with her, he was nevertheless uncomfortable in this setting and not just because of the heat. He hadn't been to a dance in years; he wasn't sure of the proper etiquette. His knee felt all right, though; he'd ask her to dance, he thought, before the evening was done.
The girls and their escorts were taking their places for the Grand March that was to open the ball.
“There is Alice Dane,” Caroline said, as much to herself as to MacKenzie. “And her father,” she added.
MacKenzie looked, but he was unable to make out which couple she referred to. They all looked alike to him. He murmured something in reply, but in her mind she had moved on, and she didn't hear. She had started toward the stairs to the balcony, where she and MacKenzie would watch the procession, when an imposing figure of a woman caught her eye.
“There!” she said. “There is Alice's mother. I am going to speak to her.”
Over near the chaperones' row, Isabel Dane was deep in conversation with two women who, like Caroline, served on the dance committee; undoubtedly, Caroline thought, Isabel was finding fault with something.
“Hello,” she said, smiling brightly at the three of them. She noted that the other two looked relieved as she approached; in the next moment, they melted away and Caroline was left alone with Isabel Dane.
That lady was an impressive personage, tall and solid, wearing an excessive amount of jewelry—no pearls—to accent her mauve shot-silk evening gown. Her heavy jaw tightened as she greeted Caroline, and she seemed to tilt a bit, as if she hovered, waiting to make a hasty exit.
“I was sorry to hear that Alice was not well this morning, Isabel,” Caroline began. “Is that warm young man going to be here tonight?”
Mrs. Dane's eyes were chilly. “Yes,” she said. “Now, if you will excuse me, Caroline—”
“Wait.” Caroline put her white-gloved hand on Mrs. Dane's arm, which was similarly covered, up to beyond the elbow, with white kid. This gesture, they both understood, was somewhat too familiar under the circumstances. “I need to speak to you, Isabel. Did you send Val away this morning because of what you read in the newspaper about Adding-ton?”
At this direct assault, Mrs. Dane's jaw tightened more and her mouth twitched. “I have always liked Valentine— you know I have—but at the moment we must be very careful of Alice's reputation.” Her hefty shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I don't make the rules, Caroline. I simply try to follow them. This young man is a superb match for Alice. I don't want anything to endanger it.”
“But it wasn't Val's fault that Addington's name was in the newspaper!” exclaimed Caroline. Mentally she crossed her fingers.
“I don't say that it was. But that is beside the point. He is her closest male relation—he has escorted her here this evening. The connection cannot be denied.”
“Of course it can't. But still—”
For a moment, Caroline thought she detected the faintest hint of pity in Mrs. Dane's eyes.
“Give it a few weeks, Caroline. By that time, if all goes well, Alice will be formally engaged. He means to ask her father for her hand any day now, I am sure of it.” Now Mrs. Dane's eyes gleamed with the anticipation of her triumph.
“I congratulate you,” murmured Caroline. “And if I understand you, Val will be welcome again when Alice has safely made her catch.”
“He is a splendid catch,” Mrs. Dane replied. “Worth anything necessary to get him.”
“Even hurting Val's feelings?”
“Nonsense! Val's feelings don't need to be hurt. Wait a bit, Caroline. For the engagement to be confirmed, for this business—whatever it is—of Addington's with the Colonel to blow over. And then all will be as it was.”
No, thought Caroline; it won't. Friendship was not something that could be put aside, even temporarily.
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Dane, her gaze darting beyond Caroline. “There is Elizabeth Dwight. I must ask her about her musicale next week.” And with no more of an adieu than that, she moved majestically away, leaving Caroline to seethe with righteous anger.
The nerve of the woman! To cast Val aside like that, when the girls had been friends for life! She scanned the room. Yes, there was Alice now—and a pale, washed-out little thing she was, compared to Val's dark, vivid beauty. How much was this warm young man worth, Caroline wondered, that Isabel was willing to behave so badly to get him?
“Come, Doctor,” she said grimly. “They are about to start the Grand March.”
They made their way up the stairs to the balcony and sat on spindly chairs close to the railing, where they had a good view of the proceedings. The marchers were in place; the orchestra leader tapped for silence, brought down his baton, and the music began.
For a time, Caroline forgot her anger with Isabel Dane as she gazed at the spectacle below. There—there were Addington and Val, the handsomest couple by far. Val looked outrageously beautiful in a violet-blue gown trimmed in black velvet, and, at her neck and ears, her mother's pearls (smooth and round, no gold filigree cap). She seemed to have banished her fears, and now she held her head high as she moved along in the stately procession, looking as though she hadn't a care in the world. There were perhaps twenty young women and their escorts in the march; they made their way down the staircase and took their places on the dance floor. When the music ended with a flourish, the men bowed and the girls curtsied
, first to the men and then to the onlookers, who applauded vigorously.
And then, at last, the dancing began. The young women danced first with their partners of the march, and then with the partners named on each girl's dance card. Caroline studied the dancers swirling around the floor, her kid-gloved fingers tapping the rhythm of the music. Briefly, her thoughts swept back to the time, many years before, when she had made that procession on her father's arm and afterward had danced the night away. And the last dance, the dance just before they'd gone in to supper, had been with a tall, fair young man with a wistful smile and a way of looking at her that made her heart long for him….
Stop it. She met Dr. MacKenzie's eye and felt herself flush. Then one of the women on the committee came to speak to her and she was saved from her reminiscences.
Half an hour later, the evening proceeding well, she stood up. “Shall we venture down, Doctor?” she said. “I must circulate for a time, I fear.”
“You go ahead.” He hated what she called circulating; he'd never been fluent at small talk.
Downstairs, she moved for a time around the edges of the dance floor, and then she saw Addington's tall figure making his way toward her. He was carrying two cups of punch; he gave one to her.
“How goes it?” he asked.
“Badly,” she gloomed. “Isabel Dane is a perfect—oh, I can't think of a name to call her!”
“Bully,” he supplied. “That's what she is—a bully. Her daughter will do well to marry and get free of her.”
“Yes.” Caroline sipped her punch. “How is Val?”
“Very well. No one has cut her, and that's something.”
They gazed for a moment at the dancers. Val was doing her best with a short, plump young man who was known among the younger set as a “card.”
“Where is George?” Ames asked.
“Over there, with his mother.”
Caroline caught Mrs. Putnam's eye, nodded, and looked away.
“Are you going to speak to her?” Ames asked.
“I must, sooner or later. But not just yet.” She smiled up at him. “I saw you in the Grand March, Addington. And dancing afterward—you and Val were the handsomest couple on the floor.”
The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN Page 8
